


603: just set myself on fire a little bit. made me think of you

by wintershelter



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst, Coldwave Week 2017 - Day 7, Introspection, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-08-14
Packaged: 2018-12-15 03:34:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11797572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintershelter/pseuds/wintershelter
Summary: Len thinks of Mick after the fire.Inspired by texts from last night.





	603: just set myself on fire a little bit. made me think of you

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so, I wrote this last week when all of my ships consecutively went on breaks... Enjoy the angst :)

It had been two months since the… the incident, for lack of a better word. Len was fine. He was _fine_. He didn’t have an arsonist shaped hole in his chest. He wasn’t mourning for the loss of a decades old partnership. And he most certainly wasn’t throwing himself into his work to not think about the things he was purportedly not thinking about.

It had happened innocently enough one evening while he was making dinner. The apartment he was staying at had a gas stove, for reasons Len was, again, not thinking about. He had turned on the stove and was waiting for a pot of water to boil. He was mulling over some blueprints absent mindedly as he stood there. He had done this many times and had no reason to think tonight would be any different. He was wrong.

The flame underneath the pot flickered wildly without explanation and the once small controlled flame had managed jump and catch the sleeve of Len’s turtleneck. It took a moment for it to ignite but sure enough, the black material was soon nurturing a small flame. Len felt and saw the fire and despite all rational reasoning and the irony, he froze.

In that split second, he wasn’t in the kitchen. He was somewhere else, somewhere where he could he hear Mick’s rumbling laugh as the fire illuminated the space between them. Len then felt the flames lick his wrist and the pain of it was enough to snap him out of his reverie.

He dropped the blueprints and snatched an oven mitt, quickly smothering the small blaze on his arm. He continued to hold the mitt to his arm, breathing heavily. After a shuddering breath, he chanced a glance at the skin.

The fire had barely grazed him. The sleeve of his sweater was partially burned and the ash of it charred his pale skin. He rubbed his thumb over the small patch of skin where the fire had touched him. He didn’t hiss as pain flared with the contact, instead he repeated the motion, taking in the too hot and itching sensation it caused without complaint.

In the back of his mind, he knew he should run the reddened skin under cold water, that although it was only a first degree burn, he still needed to care for it, but all reason had left his mind. Only memories and regrets remained.

Len turned his back to the stove and sank to the floor. He rested against the wooden cupboard beneath the counter. Len continued to stare at the mark marring his wrist, unable to tear his eyes away. The longer he looked, the more his chest ached. As the pain of the reddened patch of skin dulled, he dragged his fingers over the mark, bringing a spark of pain back to his senses. The action did nothing to mute the memories flooding into his head.

Len closed his eyes tight as he pictured the ghost of a man who had been haunting him for months. The flash of a smile right before he cracked his fist across someone’s face. The raise of an eyebrow from across the room, and Len knowing exactly what the other man meant. The smooth touch of his hands as they gently curled around his waist, his lips melding to his in a perfect fit. The unhinged laughter as walked right into the fire, breaking free of Len’s grip for the last time.

He brought the back of his hand to his mouth and sucked in a rattling breath.

He missed Mick so much. He wanted nothing more than to see the man round the corner of the hall and enter the kitchen. He’d make some dumb remark about Len having burned himself and Len would quip back with some bad pun. Mick would roll his eyes and walk over to examine the burn. He’d get that faraway look in his eyes as he touched the soot on Len’s skin and inhaled the errant smoke in the air. Len would watch as Mick leaned in to kiss the damaged skin before moving up to taste Len’s lips and then Len would press his body forward against Mick’s, feeling warm and safe, but, no. No, Mick wasn’t coming back.

Mick wasn’t here because Len hadn’t been able to keep him safe. Mick had protected Len all his life, but the one time it had counted, Len wasn’t able to do the same for him. Mick had gotten burned. Bad. The love bite on Len’s wrist was nothing compared to what happened to Mick. Mick had gotten hurt and Len hadn’t been able to stop it from happening, but he’d tried, oh god, did he try.

He had screamed at Mick over the roaring blaze. He had tugged on his arm, trying to the pull the stronger man back. First, he’d yelled orders, then he tried reason, and when that hadn’t worked, he’d _pleaded_. He had fucking begged Mick to come back with him, but that had failed too. Nothing had worked. He’d been rendered utterly helpless and he could only watch with horror as the man he loved succumbed to his most dangerous vice.

He remembered the blistering panic claw up his throat as he watched Mick walk into the flames, arms open, welcoming them like an old friend. He remembered feeling his stomach plummet as Mick walked towards the fire and away from him. And then Len had lost him, completely. He couldn’t see him or hear his voice above the crackling of the flames and in that moment, Len felt despair. Mick had gone to the one place that Len couldn’t follow, the one place where Len had spent a majority of his life trying to stop Mick from going to.

Len let out a choking noise before he could stop himself. Though no one was there to hear him, he quickly clamped his lips shut and bit the inside of his cheek hard. He tasted blood on tongue.

Mick.

It had been over two decades of heists and partnership and something… more between them. But even that wasn’t enough to save Mick from himself. It hadn’t been enough to be able to stop one of the few people Len cared about from self-destructing.

He had toyed with the idea of seeking him out and god, did he want to, but it had been over two months already and he was still too raw. And even more so, he was terrified; terrified of what he’d find of Mick. Would he still be the man Len remembered? Maybe the fire destroyed that as well, not only burning Mick physically, but also forever damaging the memory of a man he had come to love.

Love. The thought jolted through his body like ice water. He loved Mick, as much as a man like him ever could ever love anyone. And that right there was the reason he had couldn’t go back to him.

He had failed Mick and the sting of it caused his taste of iron in his mouth to turn to ash. He wasn’t enough for Mick, maybe had never been enough. He thought he could control Mick. He thought his love would be enough to make him stay. Len hadn’t truly calculated the scenario where Mick would waltz into the fire and not come out. It was stupid in hindsight. He had been stupid and blinded by his feelings for Mick and it had cost them both.

They’d both walked away burned that night.

Through his musings, Len heard the hiss of water meeting fire as the now boiling water spilled over the edge of the pot. Len scrubbed a hand over his face and stood up. He grabbed the pasta box and dumped the contents into the hot water.

Turning towards the sink, Len flipped the faucet on and let his burn be soothed under the frigid water. He closed his eyes and focused on the sensation of that. The oppressive itching heat was replaced by the feeling of cold needles stabbing his already tender flesh. It grounded him, centered him. With every drop of water he became cool, controlled, calm. He could do this.

Len switched off the faucet when he deemed the noodles cooked and finished making his dinner. His mind stay unusually blank as he flicked off the flames on the stove. He ate his dinner in silence, each movement slow and methodical. He couldn’t taste the food anyway. This was about survival and Len was a survivor, even when his whole world was in shambles.

When he finished his dinner, he cleaned up with that same precision. Len exited the kitchen and didn’t utter a word or do anything but stare at his diagrams and floor plans for the rest of the night.

 


End file.
